


Define "Innocent"

by Twisted_Mind



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-War, Bigotry & Prejudice, Drama, Drunkenness, First Time, Inappropriate Humor, M/M, Male Slash, Mild Language, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Sexual Humor, Snark, Surprise Pairing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-05 21:04:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1832245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/pseuds/Twisted_Mind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a tricky thing, prejudice. Of course, some people just <i>demand</i> that you hate them, and in which case, one must oblige. The rewards for doing so are undoubtedly worth it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Define "Innocent"

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GhostxWriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostxWriter/gifts).



> Originally posted Aug 9th 2013 at HP Fandom. Edited upon reposting here. 
> 
> Ah, a word to all those who enter here: I've made a complete monkey-fuckery of "the first time" with this. You've been warned! Also: I swear that I'm not making this shit up--the English and the French have a very long history of hating each other, and it seemed like too much fun _not_ to explore. 
> 
> Disclaimer:   
>  The only thing I own is the snark. Though, yeah, I guess that's reason enough to be proud (even if it doesn't make me rich). Oh, and I own the spell too.

It had all started out innocently enough—or as innocent as any gathering of former Slytherins could ever be, anyway. Draco Malfoy was slouched in an armchair nursing his Merlin-only-knew-which drink in front of the fire and watching the others have at each other. Pansy Parkinson was currently whispering deviously with Millicent Bulstrode and Daphne Greengrass. Meanwhile Blaise Zabini, Theo Nott and Jordan D’Angelou, who had been a year below them, boasted of their sexual conquests. The half-French wizard was starting to irritate Draco.   
  
“I may have spent half the year in England with mother growing up, but mon père ensured that I knew what the French know about love,” D’Angelou was saying smugly.   
  
Draco wondered if his half-and-half accent bothered anyone else—it certainly grated on _his_ nerves. The blond man drank a little more alcohol, hoping that might soften the vulgar phlegmy sound of D’Angelou’s consonants. No such luck, but it had been worth a shot.  
  
“So how many witches have you been able to trick into your bed, then?” Nott asked—in a manner a touch too prurient, present company withstanding, if anyone asked Draco. Which, for some reason that escaped him, no one had.   
  
“Bah! Witches, wizards, Muggle men and women, I don’t keep track,” the half-bred twat drawled. Draco supposed that he intended to seem superior, but the overconfident arrogance provided by the excellent liqueur rather ruined the effect. He hid a smirk behind the rim of his crystal tumbler.   
  
“That’s utter Thestral shite,” Zabini remarked causally, brushing away a fleck of lint from his trousers. “I’ve never met a person who truly didn’t keep track of their sexual partners. Well,” his gaze was sly, and—if one was observant enough to spot it—malice hid in the corners of those full lips, curling them slightly, “barring prostitutes of course, and those who comport themselves as if they desired to peddle their flesh.” Draco was able to predict—to the _second!_ —when D’Angelou would grasp the implication. D’Angelou flushed a mottled, unbecoming shade of pink.   
  
After a moment, however, it seemed that the frog-spawn recovered his composure. Shame. “I have never understood why you English seem so—how you say?—prudish about sex,” he rolled one shoulder before continuing, “Besides, there is a spell, en? One that will keep track for you.”   
  
And _that_ , Draco noticed, caused everyone’s attention to snap to the stupid twit. Vicious glee and morbid curiosity darkened every face in the room to various degrees. Draco only hoped that the half-wit had enough sense not to blurt out what spell it was among this crowd—it would be akin to throwing a gallon of blood into Grindylow-infested waters.   
  
But with an ostentatious “ _Socium sexualem revelare_!” he proved that he did lack the sense.   
  
And then Draco stared as intently as the rest while shimmering gold lettering appeared in the air around D’Angelou. There was a column for wizards, one for witches, and one each for Muggle men and women. The only thing missing was a totalling of the masses at the top. _Slut_ , Draco thought to himself.   
  
Or maybe not to himself, since D’Angelou asked, “Pardon?” in a tone that was simultaneously amused and scandalized.   
  
Before Draco could collect his wits, he found words pouring out his mouth. “Judging by your _impressive_ list, one might assume that you were attempting to compensate for something.” Evidently his tongue had been a little too well lubricated by the alcohol he’d imbibed, but Parkinson, Bulstrode and Greengrass immediately started tittering, so the remark wasn’t a total loss.   
  
But his English blood was obviously not the stronger half, because the twit chuckled dismissively. “Compensate? And I thought you were intelligent, Malfoy.”   
  
“And yet, how many of those supposedly-delightful fucks of yours were repeats, D’Angelou?” Draco quipped back. Loose-limbed and lax from the cognac or no, Malfoys were a force to be reckoned with. But then, if this bog-dweller had been raised in British Wizarding society like a _civilized_ person, he would understand this.   
  
“What does that matter, en?” D’Angelou asked, perplexed.   
  
Before Draco could attempt to explain—in small words, of course—Nott spared him the trouble. “See, this is where your little spell falls short, Jordy. Repeats are significant because your list of bed partners might be a hundred long, but if none of them want back in your bed, you’ve still got a lot to learn.”   
  
An ugly flush suffused the younger wizard’s cheeks. “And how many have wanted to crawl into your bed, low, scraping thing that you are?” he snapped contemptuously, before spouting, “ _Socium sexualem revelare_!” This time, however, his wand was not directed at himself.   
  
Draco, who had command of his full mental faculties despite being more than halfway to sloshed, cast a quick _Finite_ before D’Angelou had even finished spitting out that vile spell. Nott—whose face had darkened dangerously—shot him an appreciative look. D’Angelou’s expression, however, would have been more accurately described as “enraged”. With a flick of his wand, he sent the same spell flying towards Draco. This time, the Malfoy heir’s wand wasn’t quick enough to dissipate the spell before it landed.   
  
And thus it was to his horror that the word “virgin” appeared in his chest, sparkling obscenely. A quick wave of his wand made it vanish, but by then the damage was done.   
  
Nott, however, wasn’t about to let the good turn Draco had just done him go unacknowledged, and promptly Stunned and Obliviated D’Angelou. He gave a kick to the prone form for good measure before summoning a house-elf to cart the odious lump of flesh away. His debt repaid, Nott nodded once in the blond’s direction before Flooing home. His silence on the matter was not assured—and never could be, without some magical help—but it was not of the utmost importance at present.   
  
The way the others in the room descended upon him _was_.   
  
Parkinson tried to insinuate herself into his lap, the way she had often tried when they were at Hogwarts. He stopped her now—as he had then—with a hard stare. She was not to take liberties with his person. Period.   
  
“Draco, darling, why are you in such a . . . pristine state?” she inquired, her pug nose wrinkling. He wondered absently if she really thought such an expression was endearing.   
  
“Pans, you always struck me as a woman with a modicum of intelligence. Do employ that now,” Draco drawled sarcastically. While pondering the matter did make her shut her gob—at least momentarily—that still left him to deal with the others.   
  
Luckily, Bulstrode seemed rather distant from the whole affair. Whether it was because she felt knew more than she was letting on, was indulging her distaste for gossip, or simply felt above such sordidness, Draco neither knew nor cared. Unluckily, Greengrass seemed held to no such standard.   
  
“Well, sad as that is, I believe it important to rectify—”  
  
“—it was because of pureblood prejudice at first, and after the war it was because of the stigma, wasn’t it?” Honestly, Draco could have kissed Pansy for her perfectly-timed interruption. Instead, he settled for a regal nod.   
  
Apparently Greengrass was not to be so easily deterred. “As I was saying,” she bit out, all but hissing in Parkinson’s direction, “you really need this seen to, and I can think of no one better suited to the task than myself.” Draco suppressed the urge to snort—or laugh—and instead settled for a sneer.  
  
At least, he _thought_ he’d only sneered, but the sound of his own voice in his ears disproved that thought. “Greengrass, even if I had not heard of your slovenly reputation, the Malfoys deserve and accept only the best. That is to say, not you,” he tacked on faux sweetness at the end.   
  
The green-eyed woman narrowed her eyes before tossing strawberry blonde hair over her shoulders. “Very well, then. May you find someone _adequate_ to the task of debauching your virginal hide,” she bit out venomously.   
  
"Well, since you’ve brought it up, I believe he has,” Zabini spoke smoothly as he rose from his chair. He took measured strides to Draco’s side and extended one elegant hand. Overall, he gave the impression of power that was tightly leashed—and fighting to break free.   
  
Draco considered him for a moment before placing his porcelain hand inside the mocha one before him. He smirked haughtily at the women in the room, trying desperately to contain his laughter at Parkinson’s dismayed expression, Greengrass’s furious one, and Bulstrode’s quiet, knowing amusement.   
  
And then none of them mattered, because they were upstairs in Blaise’s personal sitting room, with the devastatingly handsome man kissing him greedily. When the kiss broke, Blaise fisted a hand in Draco’s platinum hair, forcing his head back. “A virgin, Draco? You and I both know that’s a load of bollocks, so tell me how you fooled that spell and I’ll make you scream,” the dark-skinned wizard growled.   
  
Draco smirked. “You promise?” he whispered coyly.   
  
The grip on blond hair tightened. “Promise,” he rumbled, his dark eyes glittering in the dim light.   
  
“I know how much you like virgins, Blaise. So sensitive, so vulnerable to your charms,” Draco purred and arched his body to slide against the other man’s. “The Aphrodite Ritual isn’t exactly pleasant, but I figured you deserved it—it _is_ your birthday. Or it will be, at midnight,” here, he paused, smirking like the Kneazle that ate the canary. The look on Blaise’s face just made the evening’s little embarrassment well-worth the trouble. “Will you unwrap your present now, or later?”   
  
The highly impertinent question was answered when his lover dragged him down the hall to the familiar bedroom. Once there, however, the mood changed. Dark fingers slid slowly over Draco’s elegant clothing, peeling it from his body piece by piece, slowly and deliberately. Draco, by unspoken agreement, treated Blaise’s robes with the same care.   
  
When they were naked, Blaise gathered his virgin into his arms, and kissed the mouth that had never been innocent. His hands wandered down the pale back to firmly grip the Quidditch-toned arse, which made Draco moan into the kiss. The kiss continued, and Blaise let his hands wander, teasing the newly-remade body in his arms. It was an exquisite torture for the blond, and before long he was twitching and trembling in Blaise’s arms.   
  
When his long-time friend and lover laid him gently on the bed, Draco was half-mad. “Please, Blaise, no more teasing. Need you to fuck me,” he pleaded, not above begging if it meant dousing the heat that had built in his body.   
  
But Blaise had other ideas. “Oh, no, baby,” he said sotto voce, “it’s your first time.” His voice was heavy with lust, but even that couldn’t mask his glee.   
  
“You promise you’ll make it good for me?” Draco looked through pale lashes, playing along in the hopes that it would get him what he wanted that much faster.   
  
Blaise groaned. “I’ll make it so good,” he promised.   
  
Blaise started mouthing his way down Draco’s chest, experience telling him which spots were the most sensitive. His familiarity with the pale body, coupled with Draco’s soon-to-be-squandered virginity had the blond writhing beneath him. Blaise took his time, licking and sucking, nibbling and biting and kissing every inch of that skin. His fondness for virgins had been well-known in school, but none had ever been as sweet under him as this.   
  
Eventually, after Draco had started keening softly, Blaise released the skin of the blond’s hip from between his teeth. He fumbled at the bedside table for a moment, before he found what he was after—a pot of clear jelly. Setting it on the bed where Draco could see it, Blaise left it there. Draco whined in frustration, more than ready for the main event in his mind.   
  
Blaise, at that moment, chose to lick a stripe up Draco’s needy prick, which caused the slender hips to buck. They didn’t make it far, however, given that Blaise had planted his elbows on pale thighs first. He teased Draco further, swirling his tongue around the engorged head, now and then taking it a little deeper into the heat of his mouth. He kept at it until the different sounds coming from Draco’s mouth melted into one long, continuous whine.   
  
Leaving Draco’s pretty cock for a moment, Blaise slithered up the slender body to kiss that pretty mouth. Draco clutched at him, arching his hips and begging for more. The trembling that had started when Blaise had first stripped him bare was more violent now. Still, this was his birthday present, and he was determined to get the most out of it. And Blaise had the feeling that Draco didn’t truly mind, for all that he was whining like a homesick first year.   
  
Blaise closed his eyes, needing to concentrate. When he was certain he had enough discipline and focus, he carefully cast a wandless Preparation Charm. And then he lowered his face, snaking out his tongue to flicker across the wrinkled skin of Draco’s pucker.   
  
At that, Draco’s wordlessness gave way. “Damn it, Blaise! Quit teasing, you sadistic arsehole!”   
  
Blaise chuckled at that and reached for the lube. Once he had coated his fingers in slick, one fingertip starting to press firmly into Draco’s body, he spoke. “There’s a Muggle saying that comes to mind right now,” from the deep rasp, Draco had a feeling that this Muggle saying was one he wouldn’t mind, “I heard they say ‘use it or lose it’.” The first digit pushed through the guardian muscles, and Draco felt his body tighten instinctively against the intrusion. Blaise started speaking again, distracting the other wizard, “In this case, it seems to fit. I’m going to use it, and you’re going to lose ‘it’.”   
  
Draco groaned as a second finger started to join the first. When he could make his throat work, he bit out, “I don’t think that’s the correct construal, Blaise.”   
  
“Perhaps not, but I quite like my interpretation,” the dark-skinned wizard countered as he twisted his hand slowly, steadily working Draco’s body open.   
  
While there was a veritable plethora of responses on the tip of Draco’s tongue, his body refused to obey his command to voice them. Blaise’s sinful fingers were short-circuiting his brains via his prostate, it seemed. Twice the dark-eyed man pinched Draco’s bits to keep him from coming too soon. The blond wasn’t too far gone to swear profusely when Blaise did so, however.   
  
It wasn’t until Draco was wondering why in Merlin’s name he had ever done something so stupid it put Potter to shame that Blaise deemed him ready. The Malfoy heir’s eyes were shut as he contemplated what he would be getting his lover in the future—assuming Draco didn’t kill him first—so he didn’t realize what his fellow Slytherin was up to until he felt himself being moved. Blaise turned his trembling virgin onto his side before pressing up against the pale back.   
  
Shifting Draco’s top leg forward, Blaise pressed slowly—unbearably slowly—into the tightness of the trembling body. Blaise revelled in the sensations: in the liquid heat of being inside his lover; in the feel of skin against skin, with the porcelain back pressed to the dark chest; the taste of that fair skin as Blaise sucked and bit at Draco’s neck; the sound of the blond’s breath hitching, his chest shuddering, as Blaise pumped him in time to his slow thrusts.   
  
Despite the way his balls ached and need urged him to move faster—to just _take_ his pleasure—Blaise didn’t alter the pace he had set. His hips continued to roll smoothly, slowly, and his hand worked Draco’s cock at the same leisurely pace, drawing out the experience. When climax came, it was just another wave of pleasure—more intense than the ones they’d been riding, certainly, but more accurately described as the culmination of hours of pleasure than the sole focus of the night.   
  
Draco, wrung out and close to tears after his orgasm, simply lay limp and let sleep take him. Blaise fished for his wand and cast a few Cleaning Charms for comfort’s sake before pulling the coverlet over them. He held Draco close and allowed the sound of the other’s breathing to lull him to sleep, thinking, _Thank Merlin I have time before **his** birthday to come up with how I’m going to match that._   
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: "use it or lose it!" 
> 
> . . . clearly I am disturbed. *head-desk*


End file.
